Jane & Charlie
by thatisanicecoat
Summary: Listen to Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" and you'll have a feel for this story. It's also an uber Xena story, because we all know Xena would be just as lawless (pardon the pun) in modern times as she was in ancient. Mostly, it's just an exercise in brevity, a scientific approach to a summer publication I'm working on. All feedback will be treasured like gems.
1. I

I open the door to Jane shuffling on the stoop. I know it's Jane because she has on Luke's old army coat. Her sweatshirt hood is pulled up, but I can spy a lick of blonde hair.

"Sorry to knock. I know it's Christmas."

"Hell Jane, you know you're welcome."

Jane pushes her hood down. There are blades of silver at her temples, a spade between her brows. In blue eyes, one dozing lamp in a dark house. Morning light is the worst betrayal.

"How're Gretch and the granbabies?" She gestures beyond the door.

From the living room come boisterous yelps, paper ripping, laughter. I am embarrassed for such a quaint display. Poor Jane.

"Santa good to them?"

"Sure, sure. Good to have kids around again. Why don't you come in, Jane?"

"Nah, thanks."

She is clenching her fist, knuckles pearly blue due to the cold. She reaches out and drops a small bundle of cheesecloth into my hand. It's tied with a thin shoestring.

"Came to give you this."

I unroll the chrysalis, and for a moment, a spiny insect settles my palm, unfurling damp wings. Then, I see it for what it is: a lock of dark hair, bound by a rubber band. It used to be the color of my own before it went grey.

"Where'd you get this?"

"She left it for me that day. In Montana."

I know what day she means. Jane told me how Charlie had woken early. Of the kiss on her brow. How she didn't quite wake. How Charlie hadn't put on the coffee at all. How the cabin smelled of stale smoke.

Rumor was Charlie had hiked through Fort Peck Reservation and vanished into Saskatchewan. Her lasting grace was to leave Jane the truck.

"It was on her pillow when I woke up. I thought it was a spider."

When Jane pulled into our driveway, Charlie's truck was spattered with wings and guts and mud, a bald donut in the rear well. It's twenty-three hours nonstop from Fort Peck to Pittsburgh.

Jane had poured herself from the truck into Gretchen's waiting arms. Trooper Tomlin—who had oil-stained our block—bolted from his cruiser. The cuffs were crescent moons around her thin wrists.

"Just take it, Rhys. Happy Christmas."

Dear Charlie, is it snowing in your country?

Dear Charlie, you gypsy.

Dear Charlie, you have made Jane old.


	2. II

Spring hasn't reached this far north yet. A cold wind bites through the cab of the truck. Charlie has cracked the window to smoke. Beyond her shoulder, the night is made of glass.

Sometimes, I wake gasping. My dreams are full of black water. Mountains no longer fill my window. We are in the plains, which the night fills like jewel-less oceans. We drive unanchored, no stars on our path, no moon to light our mast. Which flag should I hoist? What country is this?

Charlie is tired, but she won't let me drive. Just keeps swallowing caffeine pills. She has the eagle eyes, acute and roving. She is so beautiful in her denim coat. Charlie, my Charlie. I couldn't love you more than I do in this minute.

In Spearfish, South Dakota, we get off the interstate. We get a room in a motel run by a Cheyenne with jowls like a bulldog. He tells us there's a bar down the road with free peanuts and a buck-a-beer special. So, we dig for coins in the cushions of the Jeep. We walk to the bar because we're sick of driving. We get drunk. Charlie wins five dollars in a game of darts. We get more drunk and even have enough left to tip the bartend. We slip on peanut shells when we dance to Rebel Yell.

Later, in the motel, Charlie pushes me hard against the wall and bites my neck. She's teaching me to love the wild. As I know, she and her brother were raised by wolves. Yeah, Rhys had laughed, two Irish Catholic dogs.

When Charlie throws off her denim coat, the stains sober us both. I run my fingers over her t-shirt, tracing the curious spatter from navel to shoulder. The blood had bloomed purple, a curious spring flower. It's not hers of course, but it makes us remember how in a hurry we had been to get out of Pittsburgh. Charlie hadn't even changed her shirt.

I make her take a shower. After, Charlie makes love to me tenderly, black hair dripping over my skin. If it were ink, I'm sure a poem or two would be written over my thighs. Her skin is dark, even though she's as Irish as they come. I bet Charlie could pass as Cheyenne in Spearfish, or anywhere.

When Charlie is spent over my body, I think about how we'll pay for a new life. Charlie and I will dress like men and work on the docks of some Canadian port. The air will smell like salt and sea, not steel and streams. We'll find a baby boy and raise him to respect women. Charlie will build a house and I will plant a garden.

The highway opens wide to a blue sea. There is a glowing city high on the sea-cliffs, cinctured by smoke and dreams. We are free now. Luke is dead.


	3. III

I spy Rhys Glover leaning over the bar, the heel of his boot kicked out. His fist is knotted around the collar of the bartend. Bartend has the good sense to look scared.

"That's him." I point Rhys out to my wife. Normally, I wouldn't bring a woman on business. But, boss asked to see me in person. So, I figured a sweet gal like mine could put violence far from even Charlie Glover's thoughts.

"Oh, baby, it's that song I like!" She closes her eyes and sways, already drunk on one dirty martini. "What's it called again?"

"I said, that's him. Be cool now and smile pretty."

"Frankie, you got a pair of bull balls on ya, huh?"

"Nah, Rhys, nah I ain't got bull balls."

"Hey uh, it's me." I shove my lady forward like an offering, but she isn't looking at me or at Rhys.

A tall woman walks through the barroom, parting strangers like stratum of smoke. If it weren't for her tight black jeans, I'd swear she's got a cock between her legs. What a gait for a lady to have.

"Frankie, get me a lager."

"Hey, I'm takin' care of something here." Rhys shakes Frankie again.

"I'm thirsty." She slaps Rhys' hand off bartend's collar. Holy shit. "On the house right, Frankie?"

"You know what song's playing?" I could have killed her, right then and there.

"This your lady, Luke?"

"Sure is. Meet my wife, Jane. Say hi, Janie."

Rhys touches the curve of his beer bottle to Jane's chin. "Hi there, Jane. I bet you my sister knows the song, eh Charlie?"

Surprise overrides good sense. "Sister huh? So this is the famous Charlie Glover. Always thought you were a guy."

Charlie wipes her knuckles over her upper lip. Then, she tips my beer over the counter. "Frankie. Get Luke here another drink."

She holds out her hand to Jane. "Hi, Jane."

"Hi, Charlie."

"This song's called Heaven and I'd like to dance with an angel."

If Charlie were a guy, I'd have fuckin' killed him.


End file.
